


Clothes Make The Man

by HalfshellVenus



Series: Paradise [14]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: fanfic100, M/M, Male Slash, PWP, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 03:11:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfshellVenus/pseuds/HalfshellVenus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This idea had been kicking around in my head for months, and my first attempt at it resulted in the romantic barely-slashy <a href="http://halfshellvenus.livejournal.com/45711.html">“Solace.”</a> Take two got to the PWP I was aiming for…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Make The Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/profile)[fanfic100](http://fanfic100.livejournal.com/), where I have the slash pairing of Lincoln and Michael. This is for prompt #15, “Blue.” Updated to increase the porn details at the urging of several readers...

x-x-x-x-x

Lincoln is cleaning up the dishes left from breakfast as Michael works a crossword puzzle at the table. He hears the scrape of a chair, and turns as Michael moves briskly toward the bedroom.

He places the dishes in the drainer, drying off his hands as Michael returns—yanking a sweater down over his head. The last few days have been colder—a Northern front winding too far south. Lincoln is a furnace, still clad in a T-shirt and shorts. But Michael feels everything more.

This sweater is one Lincoln bought for him a few weeks ago. It was on sale, and its remarkably brilliant blue had pulled him right on over to the rack. Michael’s eyes are sometimes nearly that color, and Lincoln couldn’t help imagining how good it would look.

His imagination was nothing like the reality, apparently, as he eyes Michael with a sudden, unusual thirst. With his dark, wavy hair and this preppie sweater on, Michael looks like a hot college kid on the way to tennis with his friends. And god, prison has changed Lincoln in ways he’d hate to admit, because if he were some guy on the outside who ran across Michael in front of a coffee shop, he’d have been fucking him in the bathroom at least ten minutes ago.

“You… you look really great,” he stutters out. Michael’s white flash of a smile just ratchets that fantasy up a little further.

Michael leans against the counter and folds his arms, watching Lincoln like he half-knows what’s in his head. “Something on your mind?” he asks, his eyes drifting down toward Lincoln’s shorts.

“Uh…I… God, I totally want to fuck you over the end of the sofa right now,” Lincoln blurts out.

“No kidding.” Michael says easily. He holds Lincoln’s eyes for a moment before taking pity on him and reaching out a hand. “Well, come on then…”

Lincoln pulls Michael close, practically mauling him with the strength of his arms, and he grinds his hips in and bites Michael’s lips aggressively.

Michael growls deep in his throat, pushing back every bit as hard. Lincoln loves this kind of sex, the tough-and-dirty deep-down kick of just getting inside it and not having to worry if you’re being too rough. He likes all sex, basically, but the variety he gets with Michael is incredible. He could never have been like this with Veronica, and even those rushed all-out moments in prison had been lacking. The combination of being with someone you really loved—and being as gentle or wild with them as you wanted—was addictive. _Fucking fantastic,_ Lincoln thinks, as he licks the taste of syrup from Michael’s mouth.

Lincoln is burning up now, desire heating right up through his skin. He strips his shirt off and muscles Michael back against the sofa, unzipping Michael’s shorts and cupping him as he goes.

“Off?” Michael gasps.

“Nuh-uh—just push them down.” Lincoln turns him around, slides his fingers into Michael’s mouth. The strong, pulling suction sears a path straight to his groin, and Lincoln fights to open his shorts with just one hand. He slips his fingers slowly, slickly into Michael, maneuvering with practiced skill.

“God—do it, just _do_ it,” Michael groans, bent forward and shaking with rising need.

Lincoln sinks in, one hand on Michael’s hip and the other shoving him down. Each heavy thrust brings him right up against Michael’s ass, against those firm, rounded muscles that drive him to absolute distraction. He moves in a glorious delirium of lust, skin slapping in a rhythm of urgency as he lays claim to Michael, body and soul. Michael is gorgeous beneath him, flushed and sweat-sheened in taut, writhing suspension.

Michael twists and moans, on the brink but caught there hanging. He reaches behind him to grab Lincoln’s flank, struggling toward ecstasy and just waiting for Lincoln to push him over. When Lincoln claps his shirt around Michael’s cock and squeezes firmly, the answering yell gives the go-ahead he needs. Everything clamps and shifts and spirals around him as Michael rides the rocky edge of climax. Lincoln takes him with hard, fast strokes as all his focus rushes right out through the front and into Michael and his release finds its home.

“God…” Lincoln chokes out, nearly collapsed over Michael’s back. His brain is a blanked-out blur, and Michael’s giggles finally bring him around. Lincoln opens an eye, lifts up, and sees that Michael is almost in a half-somersault with his head rammed into the sofa cushion.

“Oh. Sorry.” Lincoln slides out gently, and helps Michael to his feet.

“You need a new shirt for today,” Michael says.

“Worthy sacrifice.” Lincoln smiles and pulls him up against his chest.

Michael kisses him, leans his forehead close. “I never did get this sweater off,” he murmurs into Lincoln’s mouth.

Lincoln laughs. “That was the whole point!”

“God, I am so wearing this sweater more often.”

Michael’s smile is satisfied, devious... and intrigued. And Lincoln thinks _that_ is the sharpest kink of all.

 

_\----- fin -----_


End file.
